


A Gentlemen's Agreement - Pt. 6

by TheNightComesDown



Series: A Gentlemen's Agreement [6]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, F/M, Hospitals, Medical Procedures, Mild Language, Queen AU, Queen Fic, United Kingdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 05:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18276371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: In the aftermath of the incident at the club, John stays by your side at the hospital, even if it means postponing a recording session with the band.





	A Gentlemen's Agreement - Pt. 6

**Author's Note:**

> Bit of a short update, but we're working on it, so that's what matters.
> 
> TW: Not particularly graphic, but if you get freaked out by talking about bones being set back in place, that happens here. Also, one mention of vomiting, also not graphic.

“Could I get an ETA, please?” the dispatcher’s voice crackled over the radio, alerting you that you were no longer at the club. Metallic squeaks and the hum of an engine meant a vehicle, you guessed. The fact that you were laid out on a bed pointed towards an ambulance, as did the events at the end of your shift. You remembered your boss’s angry voice, the tinkle of shattering glass and the snap of the bones in your arm. From that point on, though, things were blurry.

“We’re about 8 minutes out,” the driver replied over the vehicle’s radio. Static filled the silence between messages, providing an almost soothing white noise effect. 

Every bump in the road sent jolts of pain through your body as your fractured arm was jostled. It was a struggle to remain conscious between the pain and the medication the paramedics were running through the IV in your forearm. Your vision swam, shifting between moments of clarity, and times of darkness where you saw and heard nothing. Clenching your teeth to keep from crying out as the tire of the ambulance dipped into a pothole, you felt a tear slide down your cheek. A warm hand clasped your own, temporarily giving you something to focus on. 

“Can she hear me?” a man’s voice asked near your head, gentle and concerned. You knew that you recognized the voice, but couldn’t place it at the moment. Your brother, maybe? 

“Assume that she can,” another man answered from the opposite side of the vehicle. “She appears to be slipping in and out of consciousness, but it’s likely she can hear you, whether she’s able to respond or not.” A pen scratched across paper as the paramedic recorded your most recent vital signs. 

“Love, I’m right here beside you,” the first voice crooned, becoming louder as its owner leaned closer to your ear. “Y/N, it’s John. Everything’s going to be just fine. You’re in good hands.” Not your brother. You let out a whimper and tried to squeeze his hand in response, but the pain medication had impaired your coordination and strength. John still recognized the attempt, however, and lifted your hand to his lips to press a kiss against your clammy skin. 

“Sir, can I ask you some questions about Ms. Y/L/N, for the health history?” the paramedic queried, drawing John’s attention away. He held his clipboard expectantly, ready to record whatever John could give him. 

“I’ll do my best,” John said hesitantly. “We haven’t known each other terribly long, but hopefully I can give you something useful.” The paramedic didn’t seem interested in asking further questions about the relationship; he had seen and heard his fair share of odd stories in his line of work. 

“Age and date of birth?” 

“She’s 25 years old, born in March of 1965, I believe,” John frowned, pulling your purse from the pocket of your handbag. “Let me just grab her driving license, and I’ll get you the exact date.” 

“Would you be her emergency contact, sir?” the paramedic continued, scribbling away at the forms in his hands. He struggled to keep his writing even as the vehicle’s wheels caught on bumps and cracks in the pavement. 

“March 11, ’65,” John confirmed, smiling slightly at the photo on your license. Your hair had been shorter back then, a look he quite liked now that he’d seen it. “And yes, you can put me down as her contact. She’s got a difficult family situation, so it’s probably best if I’m the one on the form.” 

Neither of you had anticipated when you met days before that this would have been the outcome of your meeting at the club. John had been looking for a friend, and you were interested and willing. You didn’t have the capacity to feel bad about dragging him into all of this at the moment, but later, the guilt would set in. 

“Any allergies or medications that you’re aware of?” 

“Not that I know of.” 

This line of questioning continued on for a few minutes, with varying levels of success. John knew a bit about your family medical history, with your mother’s diagnosis of schizophrenia. That didn’t seem pertinent in this situation, but he threw it in when asked. He wasn’t sure, however, if you were on medication for birth control, or whether you had ever been hospitalized before. 

“That’s all for now,” the paramedic sighed, shaking his head. 

“Sorry I can’t give you more,” John mumbled awkwardly. “Like I said, we’ve only known each other a few days.” The paramedic kept his thoughts and assumptions to himself, but John still felt that he was being judged. In all fairness, you had been picked up from a strip club at the end of the night; what else was the paramedic to think of the situation? 

“Pulling into the ambulance bay now,” the driver called over her shoulder. “Prepare for transport.” The paramedic stood up and slipped past John, busying himself with the IV bag hanging from a hook on the ambulance’s ceiling. John tried to move out of his way, but didn’t have much space to do so. The vehicle rolled to a stop, and the driver hopped down onto the pavement, slamming her door behind her. In short order, the stretcher was brought to the ground, and John stepped down to stand beside you. 

In the intake area of the emergency department, a nurse met the paramedic team. She received a verbal report of the incident, signed transfer papers, and wheeled you into a room. With the assistance of the paramedics and an orderly, they transferred you from the stretcher to a hospital bed, doing their best to keep your broken arm stable in the process. Even so, you let out a shriek of pain as you were lifted. 

“Hang in there, love,” John encouraged, moving in to stand next to you when the paramedics stepped away. The nurse looked annoyed as she tried to attach a blood pressure cuff to your arm, because John was in her way, but she didn’t ask him to move. 

“John,” you murmured, finally finding your tongue to be functional, “What happened?” You winced as the cuff tightened around your arm, and the cool bell of the nurse’s stethoscope rested against your skin. The bright fluorescent hospital lighting made you squint when you opened your eyes, but when you finally managed to open them all the way, you saw that John was hovering right beside you. 

“You took a bit of a tumble,” John explained softly, pushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead. “Do you remember anything from the end of the night?” 

“Dan was pissed,” you grumbled, frowning darkly. “He came at me and I tried to get away.” 

“You succeeded,” John told you. “Dan, on the other hand, is probably spending the night in a nice, cozy gaol cell.” He didn’t sound remorseful about this. Based on the gauze bandage wrapped tightly around John’s right hand, you guessed that John had arrived shortly after your fall, but before the police that your co-worker had called. 

“What’s this?” you pointed, tapping the bandage. 

“Just a scratch, really,” he shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. What matters is that the doctor gets in to see you so they can do some work on your arm, there.” Realizing that you hadn’t actually seen the damage yet, you turned your head to the right, and saw that your forearm was misshapen. 

“Oh,” you breathed, your stomach churning slightly at the sight. You had never broken a bone before, so this wasn’t something you’d ever seen. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” the nurse spoke, looking between you and John. “How’s your pain, Ms. Y/L/N?” 

“Doesn’t feel great,” you admitted. “But it’s not unbearable as long as nothing touches or moves my arm.” 

“On a scale of one to ten?” she wondered. 

“Maybe a three or four,” you guessed. “A 10 if it gets bumped like it did on the way here.” She nodded, writing this down in her little notebook, which she tucked back into her pocket. 

“And your head?” she asked, tapping the side of her own head above her temple. Confused, you reached up and felt your head, realizing you had a significant goose egg. You hadn’t realized you’d hit your head, but after thinking on it, paramedics wouldn’t have been called for just a broken arm. 

“We have a doctor who specializes in fractures, or broken bones, who will be in to see you shortly,” she explained, “but first, you’ll need to go for some x-rays for both your arm and your skull. I’ll give the doctor a call to get an order for the x-ray, as well as for some medication to manage the pain. Does that sound alright?” You nodded, suddenly feeling fatigued. The clock on the wall above the door read 3:30am, which explained it. You’d been on your feet for hours, and now your injury was sapping your energy. 

“Is there a payphone around here I could use?” John asked before the nurse left the room. She pointed down the hall, indicating a row of phones in the waiting room. John opened his mouth to tell you he’d be back in a moment, but your mental processing speed was finally moving again, and you made the connection between the time and his need to make a call; he was due to be on a flight in an hour. 

“Fuck, your flight,” you gasped, reaching out for John’s hand. “You’ve got to go.” John shook his head adamantly; there wasn’t a chance in hell he was about to leave your side. 

“I’ll call Roger and explain what’s happened,” he said calmly, grasping the hand of your uninjured arm. “It’s not a problem at all, love. I can catch a different flight later, once you’ve been looked after.” 

“John, you don’t have time to waste,” you argued. “Freddie doesn’t have time…” 

“He can wait half a day, Y/N.” He paid no attention to your insistence, instead opting to hold your hand until you calmed down. 

“I’ll be back in two minutes,” he assured you before he left the room. His footsteps echoed off the walls, fading as he reached the heavy steel doors that separated the unit from the waiting room. 

Now alone, you noticed that your room had two beds separated by a curtain, which hadn’t been pulled shut. The patient in the other bed, a woman in her 70’s, maybe, was fast asleep. As your father always said when you were a child, she looked as though she was “trying to catch flies”, as her mouth was wide open. Her hospital gown was pulled down over her leg, but it appeared that she had a full leg cast. As bad as your arm hurt, you were glad not to be in her situation. 

John returned after a few minutes, looking as exhausted as you felt. He probably hadn’t taken a nap, as he said he would. A reclining chair was parked beside your bed, and you motioned for him to take a seat. He was nervous to move the IV pole out of the way, but the tubing in your arm was quite long, and he was able to shift it without causing any issues. 

“Close your eyes for a few minutes, love,” you requested. “You’ve got a long day ahead of you, and you’ll need some rest.” 

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” he worried, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“I’ll be just fine,” you promised. “Really, John, you need to sleep or you’ll be useless when you finally do make it to Montreaux. And then Roger and Brian will really hate me, and I’ll never get to see you again.” John rolled his eyes at your dramatic comment but agreed to settle in beside you, so long as you swore to wake him when it was time for your x-ray. The nurse returned a minute later with a pill and a paper cup of water. 

“This should take the edge off the pain, dear,” she explained. Glancing over at John, she lowered her voice before asking about him. “This is your…?” 

“My…boyfriend,” you hesitated, not sure what to call him exactly. He was more than a friend, but you hadn’t discussed labels, having only known each other a few days. The look of surprise on her face made you recoil slightly, but she quickly apologized for her reaction. 

“You just look so young,” she murmured apologetically. “But love comes in all shapes and sizes, doesn’t it?” You smiled in agreement, casting a look of fondness at the man snoozing beside you. 

“It certainly does.” 

* * * * * 

After a half hour wait, you were wheeled up to x-ray, where they tried their best to manipulate your arm gently for the scans. After that, you had a CT scan of your head. The doctor brought the films to your hospital room once he had reviewed them, and used the light board on the wall to show you the damage that had been done. 

“You’re in luck,” he remarked, pointing to the visible break on the x-ray. “No skull fracture, and no bleeding in your head. You’ve only fractured one of the bones in your arm, the radius. I think we can fix this without surgery, which is good news.” He explained that he would have to put it back into place and wrap it in a cast to promote healing. 

“Will that hurt?” you inquired. 

“I’m going to give you some medication through your IV that will put you under just long enough for me to reduce the fracture,” he smiled. “I don’t particularly enjoy watching my patients be in pain.” He had the nurse bring in a series of forms, which you signed. 

John stepped out of the room while the nurse prepared you for the procedure, which required continuous monitoring of your heart. She had to cut through your shirt to get a gown on you, which you were quite annoyed by; honestly, it hadn’t been covering much anyways, but you had really liked that shirt. Thankfully, the nurse made no comment on the scantiness of your outfit. She applied several sticky electrodes on your chest, which would measure the electrical pattern of your heart. 

John was able to stand beside you the entire procedure. Within seconds after the nurse had pushed the medication through your IV, you had drifted off. John watched curiously as the doctor manipulated your arm, but wasn’t prepared for the terrible _crack_ of the bone being set back in place. 

“Are you alright, dear?” the nurse asked, watching as he pressed his face into his hands. John nodded, not daring to speak in case opening his mouth resulted in him being sick. After his episode of dehydration, the churning feeling of nausea came back to him quickly. Luckily, his stomach settled after a few minutes, and by that time, you were awake and mumbling incoherently, feeling the effects of the ketamine you had been sedated by. 

“You are a _very_ handsome man, do you know that?” you giggled, reaching towards John’s face with your good arm. He looked up at the nurse with concern, who had stayed in the room to monitor your condition as you came out of sedation. She attempted to suppress a smirk, but couldn’t help it; your behaviour was downright goofy. 

“Just lie back,” he encouraged, stroking your hair gently. “You need to rest for a bit, alright?” 

“Jooooohn,” you slurred, patting his cheek, “youuu should kiss me. I think I deserrrrrve a kiss.” His cheeks flushed red, and he avoided eye contact with the nurse at all costs. He held your hand to prevent you from pulling the cannula from your nose, which was providing you with a bit of oxygen as a precaution. John denied your request for a kiss but did give you a peck on the forehead to appease your insisting. 

The doctor wrapped your arm in some sort of padding and applied a fibreglass wrap over top, creating a solid cast from the base of your fingers to just below your elbow. 

“That should do the trick,” he stated, admiring his handiwork. “It’ll be tough to hold a pen, but this should only be on for about 4 weeks. No lifting heavy objects for at least 8 weeks with that arm, please.” He shook your casted hand, making you laugh, and headed off to meet other patients. The nurse arranged your discharge paperwork and had you out of the ER in half an hour. 

“We’ll need to call a cab,” John realized as you walked through the emergency department waiting room. “Doubt the ambulance will drop us off at home.” 

“You’re probably right,” you chuckled, clutching at his arm for balance. Thankfully, you hadn’t vomited after being sedated (as the nurse had explained, this was a common side effect), but you still felt a bit wobbly from the medication they had given you. 

“Once I’ve got you settled at home, and picked up some groceries for you, I’ll have to be off to the airport,” he groaned. “I got my flight rearranged for noon, so I have a few hours still.” 

“I’m so sorry to have held you up John,” you apologized. “I feel terrible.” 

“It’s not your fault at all, love,” he reassured you, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “That manager of yours made a right mess of things, both at the club and for us. I’m sorry I can’t stay to take care of you.” He guided you over to the payphone and called for a cab, which arrived in less than five minutes. Apparently, the hospital was a popular destination for cab users. 

“I’ll have to leave the information the police left for you at home, and you’ll need to give them a call once you’ve had a rest,” John explained on the ride back to his flat. “They wanted a statement, but you weren’t in any condition to give it earlier.” You nodded, hoping you’d remember everything. Your head still felt woozy, although the nurse had assessed you for a concussion, and the brain scan had come back negative for any bleeding. 

“I should call Inspector Greaves as well,” you decided. “Even if he hasn’t got any information about where my brother’s gone, it’ll make me feel better to know that I haven’t missed a call or something.” John held you against his chest, feeling as though it was the only thing he could do to care for you now. 

When the cab stopped outside John’s building, he paid the fare and walked you up the staircase, giving you plenty of time to make it up the stairs. By now it was nearing 8:00. John tucked you into bed and set a glass of water on the bedside table for you. 

“I’ll be back from the supermarket in a half hour,” he promised, leaning in to kiss you; he hadn’t shaved in a few days now, and his whiskers scratched your face. 

“Don’t go,” you pleaded, grasping the front of his shirt with your non-casted hand. “Please just stay here with me.” 

“What’ll you eat if I don’t get groceries?” He gazed down the bridge of his nose at you, your foreheads pressed together. 

“I haven’t broken my legs, silly,” you teased. “Once I’ve had a good rest, I’ll be just fine to pop down to the shop and pick something up.” 

“Are you sure?” he questioned, concerned at the idea of you going out alone. “I know you can walk and all, but…I’m just worried about you.” 

“The best thing you can do for me right now is crawl into bed beside me, and have a bit of a kip before you leave for the airport.” You looked up into his eyes, trying to send him a telepathic message of reassurance. It didn’t appear to be working. “You look exhausted, John. Just come lie down.” 

“Let me set my alarm first,” he conceded. “Can’t be late a second time or Brian’ll have my head.” After adjusting the alarm to wake him up for 10:00, he clambered into bed beside you, resting his head on your chest. 

“Is my heart still beating?” you whispered, planting a kiss on the top of his head. His hair tickled your nose, but you nuzzled your face into it anyways, wanting to be as close to him as possible in what would be your last few hours together for nearly a week. 

“Sounds like it,” he grinned, shifting his head to look up at you. “Now close your eyes, silly girl. You need the rest more than I do.” After one last kiss, the two of you drifted off quickly, and stayed asleep until John’s alarm went off. 

* * * * * 

Once John had left for the airport, you decided that it was best to make some calls instead of going back to bed. Your sleep schedule would be thrown off if you stayed in bed all day, after all. A call to Inspector Greaves proved fruitless; there was still no sign of your brother. The number John had left for Dan’s arresting officer went through to voicemail. The last call you had to make was to the owner of the club; with a broken arm, there was no way you were going to be able to work. It would only be a month until you started your teaching job, so you decided, after thinking hard about it, that your time at the club was over. 

Mr. Davis, who had employed you for nearly 7 years, was very understanding. He apologized profusely for Dan’s behaviour, and assured you that the club’s lawyer was available if you wanted to pursue private legal action. Although he sounded sad to lose you as an employee, he seemed very understanding, and assured you that you would be offered a compromise agreement because of the situation. This would cover your expenses until you received your first paycheque from the school in August. 

For the remainder of the afternoon, you tried to keep yourself distracted. It was incredibly quiet without John around, and you found that it was an uncomfortable silence. After picking up groceries, you made the bed, washed some dishes, and located an assortment of cleaning supplies. Although John kept the place tidy, you were sure that a woman’s touch was just what the flat needed after having only a man living there for two years. 

You also explored the two bedrooms you’d never been in before, which belonged to John’s children. Robert, Michael, and Joshua, aged 15, 12, and 7, respectively, shared one larger room. Laura, aged 11, was the only girl, and so had a small room to herself. Both rooms were tidy, but still appeared lived-in; the boys had a shelf filled with books, as well as a box of sports equipment (cricket and soccer). Laura had a mountain of stuffed animals piled up on her bed, and a small desk filled with various craft and art supplies tucked into the corner of the room. The wall between the two bedroom doors held four photo frames, each filled with school photos of the children as they aged. Robert’s was nearly full, while Joshua’s only had three, having started school only a few years ago. 

The last room you hadn’t been in before was John’s studio. When you walked into the room, you felt as if you’d just entered a music shop. An entire wall was covered in wall-mounted guitars; electric basses and guitars, acoustic guitars, and even a ukulele had a space on the wall. A variety of electronics you couldn’t identify, as well as amplifiers, took up one corner of the room. On another wall hung two plaques commemorating Queen singles that had gone platinum in the US; the first for _You’re My Best Friend_ , and the second for _Another One Bites the Dust_ , both songs John had written. 

“This man is bloody incredible,” you said to yourself, struggling to believe that a literal rock star could have an interest in you. John truly was something else. You decided that to pass the time, you would focus on cleaning only the rooms you had been in before John left. His children’s rooms and his studio seemed too precious and valuable to disturb, so you let them be. 

To combat the quiet, you searched through John’s record collection, deciding on _Who’s Next_ by The Who. You remembered that John had mentioned the bassist of The Who being influential to many basses of the 70s and beyond, and were curious to see what made the group special. You set to work, dusting surfaces, wiping down glass, and sweeping the hardwood. 

Around dinnertime, the phone rang. You realized that John hadn’t mentioned whether he wanted you to answer his phone or not, but decided that in case the call was for you, it was best to answer it, and take a message if the caller asked. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi John,” a woman’s voice answered, pausing when she realized that you were not, in fact, John. “Sorry, who am I speaking with?” Your heart dropped in your chest; this was probably John’s ex-wife. 

“Um, this is Y/N,” you responded. “May I ask who’s calling?” 

“This is Veronica,” she replied, her voice pleasant and sweet. “Is John home, please?” 

_Fuck_ , you thought. _I wasn’t prepared for this._

“John actually left for Montreaux earlier today,” you told her. “Can I take a message?” 

“If you could just let him know I called, I would appreciate it,” she requested. “I’ve got a few dates for him to put on the calendar for the kids’ school events.” 

“I’ll have him give you a call as soon as he’s home,” you assured her, hoping you sounded less stupid than you currently felt. She thanked you and hung up. 

“Well, that could have been worse,” you shrugged, setting the phone back into its cradle. “I could have spontaneously combusted. Or told her that I’m only 10 years older than her oldest child, and sleeping with her ex-husband.” 

* * * * * 

Later that evening, John called from Montreaux to check in on you. He couldn’t talk for long, but he wanted you to know that he missed you already, and that he wished you were there to fall asleep in his arms. It was exactly what you wanted, too. If the next four days felt as long as today had, it was going to be an exhausting week. 

For some reason, you decided not to tell him that you’d quit your job at the club. It felt like something you should tell him in person, you thought. It wasn’t that you doubted he would be supportive; you could almost guarantee that he would be thrilled by the news. He didn’t seem like a jealous man, but he would probably feel better about you not being ogled and grabbed at by strange men. 

You did, however, mention that his ex had called. 

“That’s odd,” he hummed. “She knew I would be in Montreaux today. We swapped weekends with the kids because I knew I’d be going away.” 

“Do you think she’ll say anything?” you wondered, hoping the answer would be ‘no’. The idea of John’s wife still being involved in his life made you feel a bit intimidated. Of course, she was involved in all decisions surrounding the care and keeping of their children. That was something that would never go away. But if she told John she was uncomfortable with you being at the house, or eventually, being around their kids, what would John say? The idea hadn’t crossed your mind until now. 

“Don’t worry about that,” John told you. “Veronica isn’t my boss, nor is she in charge of my life. Whatever she things about you and I doesn’t matter.” Despite this reassurance, you still felt self-conscious about it. What was a week with you, against 15 years with her? She knew John in ways you couldn’t possibly, unless you were to stay with him for the rest of your life. 

“I’ll let you get to bed now,” he said, “but I want you to promise me something.” 

“Alright,” you frowned, curious. “What might that be?” 

“Promise me that you’ll be there when I get home.” The request caught you off guard. What was the alternative? Where else did you have to go? Your own flat was still under investigation by the police, you had limited finances, and most of the people you had acquainted with prior to him were involved in dodgy business. John was the best thing that had happened to you in a long time. 

“Okay, I promise.” 

“Thank you,” he sighed, relieved. “It’s only the first day here, and already, I’m exhausted. When I get home, let’s stay in bed awhile. I don’t think I’ll have the energy to do anything else.” John’s voice suddenly sounded _off_ , you thought. 

“Is everything alright?” you questioned. He was quiet for a long time; so long, you almost thought the line had disconnected. “John, are you there?” 

“I’ll explain when I get home,” he said finally, not caring to elaborate. 

“It’s just four more days,” you reminded him. “We can make it through four days, don’t you think?” 

“We can make it through,” John murmured, his tone suggesting that he was really just reassuring himself. “Sleep well, darling.” 

You hung up the phone and crawled into bed, curling up on the side John tended to sleep on. His pillowcase smelled like his cologne, so you nested your face into it, inhaling the sweet memory of having his body in bed beside you. As you closed your eyes, John’s words repeated in your head over and over, becoming more ominous with each repetition. 

“Just four more days.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for your patience as I resolved that last cliffhanger! I wanted to have something a little different in the story, and as a nurse, I decided to throw that bit in there. Next update will be within the week, hopefully - we will start to look at what's happening with John and Freddie, as well as what's happened with reader's parole-skipping brother.


End file.
